Made

by J. M. Darhower

  "It's my party," he muttered. "I'll kill if I want to."

  Celia laughed as an announcement came on, telling the players to report to the field. Corrado helped Celia secure her mask before situating her gun and ammo. Red paintballs. Of course.

  He had chosen green.

  "Be careful out there," he told her.

  Through the mask, she grinned excitedly. "You, too."

  "Always."

  The playing field was three acres of terrain, adorned with paint-splattered structures and bunkers. Dozens of trees were scattered around, giving plenty of places for everyone to hide. Dusk neared, vibrant lights shining down along the edges of the outdoor range, creating an ominous glow.

  The loud whistle blew, signaling the start of the session. People scattered, diving for cover, as Corrado ripped off the bulky mask and pulled his hood over his head. Game on.

  The pops of gunfire were sporadic, targeted. These men were trained. They didn't waste ammunition or shoot blindly. Corrado pressed himself against the side of a shed. His eyes studiously scanned the area, spotting movement around structures, heads peeking out from behind trees. He popped off shots, striking some guys in his crew within minutes.

  The men went down first. Corrado and Vincent took them out easily, diving behind buildings and sneaking up on men from behind until it was just the two of them and the women.

  Vincent and Corrado seemed to realize that fact at the same moment. Corrado swung around to face him, spotting him hunched beside a tall tree. Both men instinctively fired at each other, popping off round after round, striking structures and barely missing their targets as they expertly ducked out of the way, shielding themselves.

  Vincent was a better shot than Corrado recalled him being.

  Practice makes perfect.

  A shot from the slight right distracted Vincent, a bright red paintball splattering the building beside his head. Celia. The other women had chosen pink.

  Vincent turned his gun to aim for Celia, but Corrado popped a shot off before he could even go for the trigger. A green paintball splattered his mask, obstructing his vision. The blast was so hard he jolted backward, dropping the gun.

  Out.

  Corrado didn't waste any time after that. Back-to-back he knocked out the other three women, shots that intentionally grazed them, not wanting to inflict any pain. They stomped off the field, leaving just two.

  Corrado and Celia.

  Corrado headed for a bunker to his left, pausing there as his eyes scanned the terrain. Celia had been off to the right of him before, but she was stealthy. He wouldn't underestimate her. He spun in a circle, watching, waiting for movement, finding none and hearing nothing.

  Was she hiding?

  No, that wasn't Celia's nature.

  She would come for him.

  The sky had darkened, the surrounding lights casting even deeper shadows along the playing field. He continually monitored the area, straining his ears to detect even the slightest movement.

  He had plenty of practice at this.

  A minute passed, maybe two, before he heard it: the subtle crunch of feet against the ground, the rustling of grass, the shift of airflow.

  Celia was right behind him.

  Corrado spotted her a few feet away in the shadows. He raised his weapon, his finger on the trigger, but froze when she looked at him.

  For the first time in his life, Corrado hesitated.

  Celia scrambled for her gun, squeezing the trigger repeatedly.

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  Two paintballs flew right past him, but the third hit him straight in the chest, striking hard enough that he winced. The sting, like the snapping of a rubber band, lasted only a few seconds, but the burn ran deep as he lowered his gun.

  She'd shot him.

  Celia pushed up her mask as he touched his chest, feeling the red paint splattering his hoodie. "Did it hurt?"

  "A little."

  "Then why'd you let me do it?"

  He raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

  "You had me," she said, matter-of-fact. "You could've shot me a dozen times before I even saw you."

  "No, I couldn't have," he said. "I couldn't have shot you at all."

  Smiling softly, realizing why he hadn't pulled the trigger, she strode over to him as she yanked off her gloves, tossing them to the ground. Her hand slipped beneath his shirts, running up his bare chest to where she'd struck him, eerily close to his heart.

  The skin felt tender. Definitely going to bruise.

  "I think you're actually made of spider silk, Corrado," she said quietly. "Tougher than Kevlar and so much more fascinating. I'm not sure the world could ever understand how complex you really are."

  "Are you calling me Spider-Man?" he asked. "Because I have no plans to be anyone's superhero."

  She reached up on her tiptoes to kiss him. "Maybe not, but you're my hero."

  Laughing, he wrapped his arms around her. "Now you're being absurd again."

  He hugged her, drinking in the scent of her perfume.

  "Happy birthday," she whispered against his chest. "I hope you have so many more of them."

  "I will," he promised. "And I'll spend every single one of them with you."

  "What the hell?"

  Frankie yelled as soon as he stepped inside his house. Something crunched beneath his shoes, tripping him as he leaped over an obstruction in the pathway. Corrado's brow furrowed as he stepped into the doorway, out of the intense heat and into the cool air.

  A tiny little girl huddled away from Frankie's looming body. She sat on the floor, her back pressed against the bottom railing of the staircase, a slew of crayons spread out on the floor around a stack of paper.

  "Miranda!" Frankie screamed, his face bright red with anger, the vein in his forehead throbbing. "Monica!"

  He stormed off, straight out the back door, not giving Corrado another thought as he sought them out. Corrado remained in place, staring down at the child as she reached over and picked up the purple crayon, broken in half from Frankie stomping on it. She clutched both halves in her fists. "Am I in trouble?"

  Corrado was thrown off-kilter when she asked him that question, her voice quiet but strong. His initial reaction had been to correct her terrible enunciation—trouble, not twouble—but he refrained. She dealt with enough grief.

  His eyes turned toward the mess in front of her, the top page scribbled all over, colorful streaks on the wooden floor around it. She hadn't stayed in the confines of her paper. "Most likely, yes."

  He turned back to the girl, surprised to find her looking at him. Her eyes caught his gaze, and she didn't look away. Something in her expression struck him as familiar. She had a soft, round face and wide brown eyes—eyes with way too much natural curiosity. Definitely an Antonelli.

  He waited for her to plead, for her to apologize, but the girl said nothing. She frowned, turning to her picture as her hand slowly, carefully, reached for the paper. She picked up a few pieces, folding them a bunch of times, before sticking them in the pocket of her pants. She reached toward the crayons next, grabbing the green and red, sticking those in her pocket, too. The entire time she watched him from the corner of her eye, her motions so slow it was almost comical… as if she believed if she made no sudden movement, he wouldn't notice she was taking any of it.

  The girl left the rest there, exactly as it had been, even returning the broken crayon to the floor. She didn't move again until the back door flung open and Miranda rushed in. She snatched a hold of her daughter, picking her up and holding her close.

  "I'm so sorry," Miranda said. "Miss Monica took her from the stables when I was working. I didn't know… I didn't think… please, don't punish Haven."

  Haven?

  "Just get her out of here," Frankie growled.

  "Yes, sir."

  Miranda rushed toward the back door again as the girl wrapped her arms around her mother's neck, peeking over her shoulder. Her eyes caught Corrado's again. He stared back at her, f
eeling almost as if she were waiting for him to tell on her, like she was trying to intimidate him.

  Good thing for her, he didn't rat out anybody.

  Frankie grumbled when they disappeared, kicking the paper and crayons out of the center of the hallway. "Damn girl got marks all over my floor. Monica's always bringing her inside and letting her run wild, like she belongs in here."

  "So you named her Haven," Corrado said, his hands in his pockets as he surveyed the mess shoved out of the way. How hadn't Frankie noticed the missing things?

  "I didn't name her anything," Frankie said, heading for his office today. "Let's get this work finished so you can get out of here."

  Frankie had trouble running their operations in Nevada. Antonio frequently sent men down to assist when he got overwhelmed. Usually it was Corrado, but occasionally he'd send Vincent or another Capo he trusted. It was in and out, a few hours sweating in the desert to set things straight for a few weeks. It was tedious bookwork, numbers and statistics, the things Corrado watched his father doing growing up.

  They spent the next hour wrapping up some plans on a takeover of a small place north of the city. Frankie went to walk Corrado outside when they finished but stopped in the hallway, something again obstructing his path. Frankie groaned with frustration as he sagged against the wall.

  Monica was on the floor, on her hands and knees, trying to scrub the crayon markings from the wood. Her eyes narrowed at her husband. "You blame me for this, Frank, not her."

  "She knows better."

  "She's just a kid," Monica said, sitting back on her knees. "She doesn't understand."

  "The sooner she learns, the better," Frankie said. "She doesn't belong with us."

  "She does," Monica argued. "I want her here."

  Frankie pushed away from the wall, his frustration melting to vicious anger in a split second. He grabbed his wife's arm, yanking her from the floor, baring his teeth as he growled, "no."

  No. A simple word, laced with more hostility that Corrado had heard from him when he scolded the slave.

  Monica pulled away from him, tears in her eyes as she stomped upstairs. Frankie strode outside, throwing open the front door, reaching into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes. "That woman would let any stray in my house. It's the reason we left Chicago in the first place. I bring her out here to the middle of no-fucking-where, and she still pulls the same shit."

  "We are who we are," Corrado muttered, stepping off the porch and heading for his rental car. His eyes scanned the property, his gaze stopping at the stables. There, standing in the wide-open entrance, was the little girl. She raised her hand, casually waving goodbye to him.

  He didn't wave back, didn't acknowledge her, but he paused there, watching. A child, with no concept of what she was, of what she would someday be… with no concept of what kind of person her mother was, or how she had even been created. She had no idea what kind of man she was staring at, what kind of monster she so nonchalantly greeted.

  In another life, in another world, she could have been different. She had enough Italian blood flowing through her veins to make her treasured. Maybe her parents weren't much of anything, but her grandfather was a made man.

  If only he would admit who she was.

  It took a moment for Miranda to yank her daughter into the stables, into the shadows, away from sight.

  Corrado gave Frankie a polite nod. "I'll see you next time."

  "Do they really have a girl?"

  Corrado looked overtop of his morning newspaper at his wife eating breakfast. A peculiar sense of déjà vu struck him. "You'll have to be more specific."

  "The Antonellis."

  Ah. "Yes."

  "It's true?" she asked. "Who is she?"

  "Nobody," Corrado said, turning back to his newspaper. "Just a girl."

  "What? You mean like Maura?"

  "Exactly like that."

  Celia gasped, dropping her fork. "You're serious? She's like that?"

  "It's more common than you think, Celia."

  "But she's just a girl!" Celia said. "A little girl!"

  "She's not that little."

  She scoffed. "She's still a child."

  Corrado realized then his wife didn't mean the woman, Miranda.

  "My mistake," he said. "I thought you meant her mother."

  "Her mother? So her mother's a, uh...?"

  "Slave." He said it for her. He knew she hated that word. "Yes."

  "And what does that make the little girl?"

  "The daughter of one."

  Celia picked up her napkin and launched it across the table at him, hitting his newspaper. "Don't start bullshitting me now, Corrado. We both know it makes her one, too."

  "Why'd you ask if you already knew?"

  "To get you to admit it."

  "Fine." He closed the newspaper and tossed it aside. "It's true."

  "And what's going to happen to her?"

  Definitely familiar. "I don't know. And this time, Celia, I'm not going to find out."

  She stared at him hard as if she wanted to argue. He expected her to argue, to get up and storm out. But instead she picked up her fork once more.

  "How'd you even know about her?" Corrado asked suspiciously.

  "Maura told me."

  "How does she know?"

  "She saw the girl the weekend Vincent took her to Vegas."

  He took her to Vegas? "And where was I?"

  "Who knows," Celia muttered. "I was here babysitting alone. You never came home."

  "When was it?"

  "Two weeks ago," she said. "Valentine's Day."

  Out of everything they'd said the past few minutes, the barely restrained hostility tossed back at forth, those last words were what struck him hardest. He'd forgotten another Valentine's Day. "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be," she said, tossing her fork down again, this time to stand up. "After twelve years of marriage, I'm used to it by now."

  42

  The dark brick building set back off the busy highway, surrounded on all sides by tall trees. It blended into the quiet south Chicago neighborhood, laid-back and low-key, as the modest tan sign above the entrance displayed the name in deep red cursive.

  Luna Rossa

  Below it, in sparkling gold, the sign bore the word 'lounge', so subtle it wasn't noticeable unless right up on it. It had been intentional, just like the absence of all neon signs and advertisements.

  It wasn't intended to lure people off the street.

  Corrado stood in the freshly paved parking lot, leaning back against the side of his Mercedes, his arms wrapped around his wife in front of him. Her hair smelled like cinnamon sugar as he inhaled, resting his chin lightly on top of her head.

  "I love it," she said. "It's perfect."

  He smirked, gazing at the building. Construction had completed the week before, a day ahead of schedule and right on budget. Corrado couldn't be happier.

  The project was born one fall night when Corrado had a particularly rough evening. He arrived home close to midnight, the scent of mildew and old alcohol clinging to his clothes, overpowering the sweet fragrance from the bouquet of flowers in his hand. He had hoped to spend some time with his wife, hoped to purge the day's events from his thoughts, but instead he found an empty house with a hastily scribbled note on the table:

  Helping Maura. Don't wait up.

  Don't wait up.

  How many times had he told her those exact words?

  He didn't much like it in reverse.

  She hadn't made it home until two in the morning. Corrado sat on the couch, his shirt unbuttoned and shoes kicked off as he flipped through channels on the television. The flowers lay on top of the note on the coffee table, already starting to wilt.

  "I thought you'd be asleep," Celia said, running her hand through his hair, her fingernails scraping lightly against his scalp. The tickle shot down his spine, his eyelids drooping at the sensation.

  Man, he was exhausted.

  "You weren't home
."

  "I left a note," she said, sitting on the arm of the couch beside him as she massaged the back of his neck.

  "I saw it."

  "And you still waited up."

  "Of course."

  She gazed at him in the dark room, the glow from the muted television illuminating her face as she frowned. "I worry about you, Corrado. Don't you ever want more?"

  He stared at her, those words making his stomach sink. "I have everything I need."

  "Not need," she said. "Want."

  He answered honestly. "I don't know."

  "You should have something that's yours," she said. "Something you pour your soul into."

  "I have you."

  She gripped the back of his neck. "Besides me."

  "Wor—"

  "Don't even say work."

  Did he want more than that?

  "You work hard," she said, not waiting for him to come up with an answer. "Harder than you need to."

  She reached over, grasping his right hand, running her finger along the scar across his palm. Although she didn't elaborate, he knew what she meant. He had fought hard to be made, to earn his place, yet despite the title, he still did the brunt of the work himself.

  Work others should be doing for him instead.

  Corrado dwelled on that all night and the next day as he worked the streets, going in and out of grungy buildings around the city. Just once he wanted to step foot somewhere where he felt welcome, somewhere where he didn't have to fight the urge to gag.

  For guys who prided themselves on being honorable, they sure frequented some disgraceful places.

  He mentioned that in passing to Antonio, who laughed it off. "The only way you're going to get a classier hangout is if you open one yourself, Corrado."

  He'd been joking, but Corrado took those words to heart.

  Luna Rossa, every aspect built to his strict specifications. And standing in the parking lot beneath the warm spring sunshine, his wife in his arms, he felt almost as if he were seeing himself. It was an extension of him, a reflection of his personality. Luna Rossa was everything he loved in the world, translated into something legitimate, something to be proud of.